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LIBRARY OF CONGRESS. 

Chap...'...... CopyrigM No... 

Shelf...K:7 

UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. 




From Fallow Fields 



.y 



B 
ADA A. MOSHER 



Like an iridescent bubble 
Here and there, 
A berry-bloom may brighten, 
Or the golden rod may lighten, 
But the most of fallow fields is stubble, 
Brown and bare. 



BALTIMORE 

JOHN MURPHY & CO. 
1897 




K- 






Copyright, 1897, by Ada A. Mosher. 



CONTENTS 



PAGE. 

Dedication, ._--,---- vii 

"At that Time—" 1 

A Secret, 2 

Asleep, 4 

A Thought, 6 

After the Storm, 9 

Ave Maria, 10 

A Picture, 11 

Ash Wednesday, 12 

After Vespers, 14 

Autumn, 15 

Amid the Pines at Sunset, - - - - - -16 

A Toast, 18 

A Perfect Work, 21 

A Field Service, 22 

" And they received, every man, a penny," - - - 24 

Alchemy, 24 

"A Thousand Years are as a Day," - - - - 25 

Ad Summum, 26 

Age, 26 

A Snow Mass, 26 

Be Patient, Lord, - - 28 

Bonaventure, - - 29 

Cloud Faces, 31 

iii 



IV CONTENTS. 

PAGE. 

Chance, 33 

Communion, 33 

Cosmos, 34 

Death, 34 

Dogwood, 34 

Decoration Day, 35 

Death, . . _ 35 

Easter Morn, 36 

Epitaph for a Humorist, 38 

Flowers, . 38 

Facing Homeward, ----...- 40 

Francis Scott Key, 42 

First of May, 44 

Gloria Virtutis Umbra, 45 

Heaven, ...- 47 

Homeward, Ho ! 48 

Hope, 50 

Humility, ...5O 

If, 50 

In Memory of Sister Vincent Coghlan, - - - 52 

In Memory of Sister Frances Bunting, . . - 53 

In Memory of Father Ryan, 54 

June, 55 

Kinship, 55 

Love, 55 

Love Letters, 57 

Labor, 57 

Like as a Father, 57 

My Hero, 58 

March in the Mountains, 62 

Moments of Musing, 63 

October, 65 

October Night, 66 

Prayer, 67 



CONTENTS. V 

PAGE. 

Possession, 67 

Peter and Judas," - - -- -- - -68 

Poverty, ----. 69 

Retribution, - - - 69 

Remorse, - 70 

Requiescat, 70 

Recompense, 71 

Since, 71 

September Roses, 71 

September, 72 

Sunset at Bonnie Brae, 72 

"She Hath Seen To-morrow," 74 

To Josie, --.. 76 

The Passing of March, 77 

To Nolene, 78 

To Some Pressed Passion-flowers, 80 

The Gloria, - - 81 

To M. F., 83 

The May After, 85 

To International Parliament of Peace, - - - - 86 

Two Twilights, - 88 

To a Belated Daisy, 89 

The Confederate Flags, 90 

To a Lady, Playing, 93 

To a Hyacinth Bulb, 93 

The Wake of the Storm, 94 

To the Havana Cathedral, 94 

The Fallow Year, 95 

Two Songs, 95 

Tone, 96 

To a Hedge of Cosmos, 96 

Two Hates, 97 

The Sanctus of the Hills, ------ 97 

The Shepherd, 98 



VI CONTENTS. 

PAGE. 

The Poet, 98 

The Storm, _ . . 99 

To , _ - 99 

Uncanonized, - - - 100 

Vade Mecum, - 101 

Why, 101 

Walt Whitman, --..... 102 

Which, ----- 103 



DEDICATION. 



TO MY FATHER. 

No warmer heart than thine e'er pillowed pain. 
No readier tear another^ s grief caressed ; 

No braver soul e!er struggled to attain 

The blessing whereby others should be blest 

No hand could gentlier guide a babe at play. 
Nor stronger strike to free a gyvPd land : 

Thou gavest thy life for good of men which they 
May yet grow wise enough to understand. 

Now thy dear hands are folded palm to palm, 
In lifers last, long Amen ; thy lips forbear 

To break, by any tender word, the calm 

Of that sweet hush that follows after prayer. 

And so I softly lay these wayside flowers, 

Gleaned from the fallows, bitter too and sweet ; 

Poor little blossoms of lifers loayside hows, 
let them be the pansies at thy feet. 

WooDMONT, August 6, 1896. 



FROM FALLOW FIELDS. 



"AT THAT TIME—" 

I heard the old familiar Gospel read, 

I knew it line by line and word for word, 

Of how the mourners, bearing out their dead, 
Met, at Nairn's city gates, our pitying Lord. 

And how the tender heart that held so much 
Of pity for all death, — all save His own — 

Bade them, ^'Weep not;" as jealous for the touch 
Of grief to fall upon His life alone. 

The pathos of old phrases, one by one, 
Stole back as dear old mem'ry-faces will ; 

I heard, as in a dream, " the only son," — 
And, softly, " they that carried it stood still." 

" He that was dead sat up and 'gan to speak — " 
But here I waked in sudden, conscious pain, 

1 



2 A SECRET. 

*' Dear Lord/^ I cried, " how bleak, how barren bleak 
These grief-worn ways we search for Thee in 
vain ! 

" How lonely hath Thy going left to us 

Our grave ward ways outside the city gates ! 

We know that nowhere, pale and piteous. 
Thy human face our weary coming waits. 

*' Thou gav'st the widow her's, and, Jairus, his ; 

To Martha and to Mary, Lazarus ; 
We envy not these mercy-mysteries 

To them, but, O, be pitiful to us 

" Who carry out our dead in these cold days, 

Returning to a world left desolate, 
To miss their face in all life's lonely ways. 

We saw Thee not beside the city gate." 



A SECRET. 

I saw a violet's face to-day 
Peep out from 'neatli a stone, 

And, kneeling close to it, I lay 
My cheek against its own, 



A SECRET. 

And whispered : " Tell me, little one, 
With thy brave, tender face, 

How could you struggle to the sun 
In this ungracious place? 

" An exile from thy kin and kith 

To bear so brave a part ! 
How could you live, my sweet one, with 

This stone upon your heart ? 

" Why doth the laughter in thine eyes 
Bring sudden tears to mine ? 

Is 't that I see an anguish-wise, 
Brave patience, dear, in thine ? 

^' Thy sweetness, — did the stone upon 
Thy heart give this to thee ? 

Tell me the secret, little one, 
I '11 guard it lovingly." 

The violet seemed to closer draw 

My cheek amid the moss ; 
'^ The tenderest Face man ever saw 

Looked out from 'neath a cross/' 



ASLEEP. 



ASLEEP. 



I shall not hear 
The tiny pulse-beat of the flowers above my head, 

Altlio' my heart is hushed to listen ; 
No touch of dark or light shall stir the curtains of 
my bed 
To whisper day is set or risen. 
The Matron year, 
With all her glad-voiced children following in her 

train, 
Shall pass the little grass-grown couch where I am 

lain, 
On tip-toed silence pass, repass and pass again. 

And Spring shall come 
Forth shaking from her garment folds the sweets 

Of violet aromas, while 
Upspringing, peeping after her as she retreats, 

Leap brown-eyed daisies, making earth to smile 
Elysium. 
How strange 't will be to hold my clasped hands so 

still 
And thro' my pulseless heart feel not one answering 

thrill ; 
Not e'en when violets first spring on yonder hill. 



ASLEEP. O 

I shall not feel 
The Summer dew or rain-drops soft upon my face. 

I wonder shall I miss the Summer? 
Ah, no ! not even loneliness shall find the place 

Nor longing for a dear-faced comer 
An entrance steal. 
Above my head the trees shall count their Autumn 

gold 
Leaf upon leaf, aud then across the wold, 
The wind shall drive them as a shepherd doth his fold. 

I shall not see. 
Not I, the Winter fling adown its whitened showers. 

How I have watched it o'er and o'er ! 
Scattering ghost-petals of the garnered flowers 

That Summer's warmth shall kiss no more 
On field and lea. 
Or stealing to some fallen tree, gaunt, gnarled and old. 
To lay within the rigid fingers' stiffened hold. 
For old love's sake, flake-flowers, frail and pure and 

cold. 

But, Spring, your face 
Nor any of thy sister seasons shall I miss : 

For I shall feel upon my brow 
Impressed the print of your eternal life-warm kiss. 
That then shall glad with rarer radiance than now 
My dwelling place. 



6 A THOUGHT. 

And so, hereafter, when you come to linger near 
And strew, for sweet remembrance' sake, upon my bier 
Your firstlings I so loved, say soft : '^ She is not here." 



A THOUGHT. 

I knelt in the dim Cathedral 
Ere the hour for Mass had rung, 

Alone with the Christ on the altar 
And the hymn that the Silence sung. 

And I felt, as I knelt, to my eyelids start 
The tears I could not control ; 

For music may speak to the human heart, 
But silence sings to the soul. 

And the Heart in the tabernacle 
Was speaking unto mine own ; 

Ah, the moments were ones of sweetness 
When I knelt with Thee, Christ, alone. 

Alone? nay, before Thine altars 
Unseen angels are strewing palms, 

And sweeping, forever, from psalters 
Of silence, their infinite psalms. 



A THOUGHT. 7 

Dim were the great white altars, 

All save the shrine of Mary ; 
And burned, like the love of a faithful soul. 

The lamp of the sanctuary. 

While a single light kept vigil, 

Casting its rays athwart 
Some snow-white lilies lying 

At the feet of the Sacred Heart. 

I raised mine eyes, — in a surplice white. 
At the shrine where the lilies lay. 

Saw the pale sweet face of an acolyte 
Whose taper was stealing a ray 

From the burning heart on His snowy shrine, 

Thence on to the altars pass, 
To touch with a brightness almost divine. 

The holy lights for the Mass. 

And one by one thro' the dreamy haze. 
Watched them slowly steal into stars, 

Till the great high altars were all ablaze 
With their scintillant, luminous spars. 

And methought, ah, yes, it was meet indeed 
That the ray so soft and tender, 



A THOUGHT. 

From the lamp of the Sacred Heart should feed 
The altars with all their splendor ! 

For dim were the hearts and souls of men 

In the gloom of sin and woe ; 
But the love of the Christ-Heart even then 

As a fire, was all aglow. 

They touched its flame with Calvary's dart, — 

Lo, heaven's closed portals ope ! 
And the altar of every human heart 

Is aflame with the lights of hope. 

They burn in His living temples. 
And the gloom of despair infernal. 

Can never quench the lights thus lit 
From the light of a love eternal. 

Aye, from His heart's great flame it drew 

Light that for worlds sufficed. 
When the spear of the Csesar's guard struck 
thro' 

The heart of the dying Christ. 



AFTER THE STORM. 



AFTER THE STORM. 

After the storm come the sun and bhie sky, 

And the twitter of birds instead of the thunder, 
And a lifting of leaves that the rain bowed under 
Its torrent-like rush, 
And a freshness and flush 
Creeping over all nature and soft, gentle wonder 
As the world were new-born when the storm 
passes by. 

So you would say of the storms of the heart 

That the smile after sighs is but softer and brighter. 
And the laugh after tears but the gayer and lighter. 
And gladness upsprings 
On more radiant wings 
For the life where the storm-winds of grief have 
borne part. 



Yet in the forest where giants combat 

Mighty-boughed, with fierce winds, one conquered 

is lying. 
Struck down by the lightning's bolt shattered and 

dying. 
What are sunshine or song-birds or blue sky when 

dead. 



10 AVE MARIA. 

Blackened, blasted forever, its branches are spread 
On the sod at its feet ? 
Never Springtime so sweet 
As to waken it more — some griefs are like that ! 



AYE MARIA. 

Ave Maria, gratia plena, 

Draw me, My Mother, nearer ; 
Loose from my soul the fetters that chain her 
'Till life in its vanity seemeth the vainer, 

Thou and Heaven, the dearer. 

Sancta Maria, our hope's sweet aurora, 
Shine when the dark shadows fall ; 
Ora pro nobis. Mater, ora. 
Hear us we pray thee, nunc et in hora 
Mortis nostrse, — when life's amphora. 
Broken, is spilling her precious wine ; o'er a 
Depth of death's darkness, we call 

Sancta Maria, our Refuge, our Mother, 

Call for thy closest clasp then. 
Earthly love leaves us alone, and none other, 
Save thee and Jesu, thy Son and our Brother, 

Heareth and heedeth — Amen. 



A PICTURE. 11 



A PICTURE. 



How shall I paint it— that sweet face of thine— 
That pure and patient face, wherein remain 

So little human and so much divine ? — 
The brush were sacrilege, the pen, profane ! 

That dark old picture of Madonna there, 
When Benediction candles all are lit, 

Blooms into beauty marvelously fair ; 
And I remember thee as like to it. 

I close my eyes, and, thro' the dark, thy face, 
Incarnate meditation, breaks as light; 

White as a soul in its baptismal grace 
Or lilies' faces peering thro' the night. 

When dawn steals thro' the window, casting faint 
Reflected jewels on the Altar stone. 

The sculptured face of thy sweet chapel saint 
Shines not more purely passive than thine own. 

Thy lifted eyes are like a silent prayer. 
Strong in its worldless rapt intensity ; 

And seem within their lambent depths to bear 
Some wondrous vision mortals may not see. 



12 ASH WEDNESDAY. 

There shines therein a faith that hath withstood 
Life's petty frets that wear the heart and brain; 

And, knowing above all that God is good, 

Fears not, cares not what else be false or vain. 

Methinks some angel's harp poured forth a dream 
Which touched, as more than sweet, God's 
listening ear, 

And lovingly He thought, " I '11 write the theme 
That earth may see that which it may not hearj^ 

And thus we have thy face, imprisoning 
A marvelous melody that may not speak 

But sweet as when, in Heaven, God, listening. 
From all its harmonies, did this outseek. 



ASH WEDNESDAY. 

Silence the carnival music — the reign of the flesh 

is o'er; 
Tear oiF the festal wreath and sweep the strewn 

flowers from the floor. 
Listen awhile to the grief sobbing under the 

music's glad strain ; 
Walk for awhile on the thorns that the flowers 

have hidden in vain. 



ASH WEDNESDAY. 13 

Just as the Springtime is flushiug and filling the 

earth with life's breath, 
Turn thou aside and in spirit walk hand in hand 

clasped with death ; 
Just in the year's rosy morn, when new flowers the 

hillsides incrust, 
Turn thine eyes inward, remembering the sentence 

of " Dust unto dust." 

Bow the proud brow for the cross to be traced in 

ashes thereon, 
Chanting the De Profundis for the days that are 

past and gone ; 
Chanting the Miserere for the wasted souls of the 

hours, 
Flung to the Moloch of pleasure that daily demands 

and devours. 

Humbly we kneel at the altar, — the days of our 

feasting are done. 
Hushed is the carnival music, the days of our fast 

have begun ; 
Humbly we bow down our brow for the sign wherein 

is our trust, 
Humbly we list to the "ashes to ashes and dust unto 

dust." 



14 AFTER VESPERS. 

AFTER VESPERS. 

IN A CLOISTER BY THE SEA. 

Music has died into silence ; lights, into dark, 
Save the great solitaire ruby whose sentinel spark. 
Pendant before the high altar, burns sleeplessly 'On 
Watching from star-time to star-time, from sun 
unto sun. 

Heavy the air is with incense ; the silence with song ; 
Shadow-ward down the dim corridors whisper along 
Wings of His legions of angels that, hitherward 

flown, 
Circled, a cordon celestial, the Eucharist throne. 

There, with the dim light upon her, lingering apace, 
Close by the Lily-Madonna, a nun's lifted face, 
Pale with the fasting of love thro' the long Lent 

of life. 
Gleams as an Easter dawn gleams o'er a Calvary's 

strife. 

AVhite as the sea in its seamless surplice of foam, 
Bright as its beacons that beckon the mariners home, 
Gleam thro' the dusk the great altars, while o'er it all 
Faintly their Angelus Ave the harbor bells call. 



AUTUMN. 15 



AUTUMN. 

The carnival Summer has flown at last 
And the forest kings, like friars grey, 

Are keeping their Lenten of prayer and fast 
And the ashes gleam where the emeralds lay. 

Leaf by leaf from their rosaries fall 
The beads of amber and amethyst, 

Topaz, ruby and agate, all 

Glittering down thro' a purple mist. 

Jewels slipping the rigid hold 

Of their aged fingers crooked with chill. 
Mumbling the dolorous mysteries old 

Their counted Aves the valleys fill. 

Laudate — the chorus of color poured 
From the choir of every sunlit hill, 

Laudate Dominum, — praise ye the Lord, 

Whose glories the mountains and valleys fill ! 

But feebly now from each lonely loft 
The dirge of the De Profandis falls, 

Clamavi ad te — pleading and soft, 
Over the desolate waste it calls. 



16 AMID THE PINES AT SUNSET. 



AMID THE FIXES AT SUNSET. 

Aisles leaf-carpeted, and columned 
With the tall Corinthian pines, 
Lifting to a dome of golden 
Coronals of carving olden, 
Wrought in wonderous designs. 

Heaven^s cathedral windows flashing 

Sunset splendors opaline, 
Silent, gem-like oifertories, 
Tessellating with strange glories 

Long dim aisles of bronzed green. 

Thro' the cloistered sanctuary 
Of this forest-temple stole 

Whispers of a Voluntary 

That spake strangely to my soul. 

'Mid pine pillars all aglisten 

In the gold and amethyst, 
Knelt I reverently to listen 

To the aged organist — 

To the Wind — that old musician, 
With the centuries in his heart, 



AMID THE PINES AT SUNSET. 17 

And sublimer sweep of vision 

Thro' wierd melodies Elysian 

Than Beethoven or Mozart. 

Neath his aged hands caressing 

Trembled all the leafy keys, 
As he breathed beyond our guessing 
Something like a soul's best blessing, 
Or a soul itself confessing 

In Aeolian harmonies. 

How the low sweet numbers pealing 

Forth in whispers silence-soft, 
Thrilled me as I heard them stealino: 
All surcharged with tenderest feeling 

From the pine-top organ-loft ! 

Grayer grew the gold ; the dying 

Day's last smile was, trembling, caught 

On the leaves, then, westward flying. 

Left me in the gloaming, trying 
To divine his master-thought. 

Suddenly came shadows stealing 
Like the forms of phantom nuns, 

Long, grey veils of mist concealing 

Their pale, prayerful faces, kneeling 
At their Vesper orisons. 

2 



18 A TOAST. 

Grander, holier inspirations, 
From the organ-tower dim, 

Poured in tremulous vibrations ; 

Then I know that with the nation's 
Rose his benediction hymn. 

Knew a thousand altars glistened 
Thro' a cloud of frankincense. 
In the taper's starlight christened, 
While archangels hid and listened 
From the rose's redolence. 

Silent, ghostly hands erected 

A dream throne — ciborium. 
Nature poured a praise perfected, 
Each star flashing a reflected 
Lifted ostensorium. 



A TOAST. 

To Josef Damien, the Belgian, who gave a life service and a 
life to the lepers of Molokai. 

Here 's to the silent brave, and here 's to the bravest 
thereof ! 
Here 's to the dauntless Damien, — and here 's to 
his deathless deed ! 



A TOAST. 19 

Here 's to the hero-heart that lived the gospel of love 
And broke in the Desert of Death the living 
Bread of its creed. 

O ye, who love as your life the light of your native 

skies, 

Drink to the brave adieu the Belgian bid to his ! 

Drink to his last long look in the depths of his 

loved one's eyes 

Ere he turned his own forever full into Misery's. 

O ye, who crown the immortals, ye priests of the 
temple of Fame, 
Poet and painter and sculptor, put pencil and 
chisel by ; 
And cross yourselves into silence at sound of Da- 
mien's name, 
Your prayer is meeter than praise for the martyr 
of Molokai. 

He hath written as ye can never, O poet with honied 
tongue, 
A paean of passion — the grandest that moveth the 
human soul — 
That lyric of love surpassing, O poet, is yet unsung. 
And the candle of Time will go out ere we look 
on the Master-scroll. 



20 A TOAST. 

He hath touched a canvas with color and the paint- 
ing that he hath drawn 
Would bring to his knees a Nero, to the lips of a 
Bruno, prayer ; 
'T is a sepulchre in the sea and a living man thereon 
And the human readeth the picture and readeth 
therein despair. 

He hath wrought as ye have dreamed not, ye whose 
creative hand 
Fashions the clay to the image and likeness of 
your thought, 
Till, with living breath, it seemeth the nostrils 
thereof expand, 
And the Nations speak each other : " How mar- 
velous hath he Avrought ! " 

And where was the land of summer, where the soft, 
dreamy clime 
That fed his fancy and nurtured the poet life 
he led? 
Was 't porph'ry or parian whereon he carved his 
defiance to time? 
'Twas a rock in the mid-Pacifio, the tomb of the 
living dead. 



A PERFECT WORK. 21 



A PERFECT WORK. 

In nature's teraple^ rapt, the poet stood 

Where violets purpled 'neath him miles on miles ; 

He heard the sweet-voiced choirs of the wood 
Thrill all the length of its tree-pillared aisles. 

Impelled of his imperious poethood, 

He sang as only heaven-born poet could. 

How his sweet song, his sweeter thought to express, 

So pitifully little had availed, 
The poet only knew — -we did not guess — 

" I Ve failed, my heart, thou knowest I have 
failed!" 
And straight his true heart made him answer : " Yes, 
Thy passion was divine, thy song is less.'' 

Again the poet stood as one bespelled 

And watched the sunset creeping like the sea. 

Till all the gates that had its floods withheld 
Were loosed to let the mighty waters free ; 

And as the golden glory surged unquelled. 

E'en so the rapturous heart within him swelled. 

The olden passion — subtle, sweet and strong — 
He seized his brush — his soul was in his hand — 



22 A FIELD SERVICE. 

Look, look, these tints to Heaven alone belong — 

Ah, that sweet after-glow upon the land ! 
We wept for joy ; the poet, for the wrong 
His inspiration bore in scene and song. 

White streamed the moonlight wherein, pale and 
sweet. 

The apple blossoms drifted flake on flake. 
And yonder, wave on wave, the wind-swept wheat 

In silent silvery blossom-billows brake — 
A tear-drop startled a pale Marguerite — 
He bowed his head and struggled with defeat. 

Star-ward at last he lifts beseeching eyes 
As searching for a sign, — then, tenderly, 

He folds together botli his hands, childwise, 
"Our Father, who art in Heaven, hallowed be 

Thy name — ^' "^Tis prayer! — ^T is prayer,'^ his 
heart replies, 

" The only perfect work that satisfies.^' 



A FIELD SERVICE. 

The Sabbath bell, the Breeze, 
From its belfry in the trees, 



A FIELD SERVICE. 23 

Rang a summons to the little congregation ; 

And the Grasses sat in rows 

Crowding one another close 
Till the pews were filled to almost suffocation. 

The Wild Rose read the Gospel 

And the Clover led in prayer, 
While the Briar Brethren, bending reverently, 

Clasped their hands and now and then 

Answered soft " Amen, Amen ! '^ 
Then they all sang ^'Let thy blessing fall on me." 

" Even me — Even me " 

With a touching modesty 
That shrank as tho' its pleading were a boast, 

As if He could love them less 

For their homespun little dress 
Knowing not that, being poor, He loved them 
most. 

A curly-headed Thistle 

Nodded o^er his tiny Missal 
While the Daisy preached the sermon — how he 
stares — 

Looking every inch the scholar 

With his snowy Roman collar 
And that amber-colored monocle he wears. 



24 ALCHEMY. 

He preached upon the creed 

Of the Wild-flower and the Weed, 

And his logic carried with it full conviction, 
And they all — but here it thundered, 
So they rose and sang '^ Old Hundred," 

And a Shower gave the final Benediction. 



'^AND THEY RECEIVED, EVERY MAN, 
A PENNY.'' 

To those who bear the burden of life's day 

And do whatso they find with all their might; — 

To these, who stand and idle it away. 

Death gives, alike, but lodging for the night. 



ALCHEMY. 

With all the hills for his vast lab'ratory. 

The alchemist of Autumn tests his gold ; 
From crucibles of color flames its glory : 
But comes anon the Winter, sage and hoary, 
He hath — this gray arch-alchemist of old- 
An aqua regia, wherein, at his list. 
The gold of Autumn shall dissolve as mist. 



A THOUSAND YEARS ARE AS A DAY. 25 



A THOUSAND YEARS ARE AS A DAY. 

Inversely have I solved thee, cryptic truth, 

No longer art thou mystery to me ; 
Myself am stranger, for I live, forsooth, 

I live who have looked on eternity. 

^T is but a day, one sunrise, one sunset ; 

Twice twelve times filled the sand these little 
spheres ; 
The dial marks a day — and yet, and yet — 

This day to me is as a thousand years. 

Between two midnights by a taper's flare. 

Whose light was darker than the dark of both. 

For showing me his face so ghastly fair, 
I read Thy secret. Lord of Sabaoth. 

A thousand years — dear Christ, if it could pass, — 
The chalice of this knowledge pass away. 

And thou could'st give me back. My God, alas — 
But yesterday and him who died to-day ! 



26 A SNOW MASS. 



AD SUMMUM. 

My heart, we Ve harbored sorrows whereunto 
Some heavy burdens would be reckoned light ; 

But — God ! — the agony that searched us thro' — 
The jird chill rain upon his grave that night ! 



AGE. 



As softly as the stars steal into place 

Till all the choir is full for Vesper psalms ; 

E'en so the years have stolen on apace 

And starred with memories its twilight calms. 



A SNOW MASS. 

Looms of the Orient, can ye this surpass — 
This altar cloth that Night has laid for Morn, 

Whereon to read betimes the sunrise Mass 
By feeble candles of the twilight dawn ! 

What glittering gems are meshed in every fold ! 
Crown Jewels of the Empire of the Skies — 



A SNOW MASS. 27 

The raDSom of a thousand kings thrice told 
Within each tremor of its vesture lies. 

And yon long avenue of pines — all these 
Stand surpliced like tall acolytes, in rare 

Old laces from the Cloud land sacristies, 
Spun by the shuttles of the dew and air. 

As down cathedral aisles, at close of May, 
Before His Hostly Face the children go. 

From heaping armfuls lilying His way, 
The Wind's processionals move to and fro 

Intoning, as they strew snow-lilies flung 

From brimming baskets borne by branching 
boughs. 

Their Agnus Dei in a mystic tongue 

Whereat the conscious Lindens bend their brows. 

The woods are wreathed, as sacristan devout 
On feast-eves wreathes the candelabra tall ; 

With Easter whiteness garlanded about. 
Like Paschal candles stand the poplars, all. 

Introibo . . . with soft eyes aglow. 

Faintly whispers Morn, the pale-faced priest ; 
Fainter still Ad Deum . . . echoes low 

The Server-Sun is answering from the East. 

WOODMONT, December, 1895. 



28 



BE PATIENT, LORD. 

Because I cannot cry to Thee, 

Lord, leave me not to my despair ; 

Dear Christ, stay patiently by me, 
I am not strong enough for prayer. 

Like some poor stricken thing I come, 
Too weak to moan my hurt to Thee ; 

Thou understandeth, Lord, the dumb, 
Be not less pitiful to me. 

Grief's steel hath broken in my heart 
The cruel barb of its keen blade ; 

I know Thy touch is gentlest, yet 
Be patient, Lord, I am afraid. 

Athrill with torture, anguish blind, 

In human pain all else forgot, 
I stretch mine arms Thine own to find, 

Oh, let their firmness fail me not. 

Long, long ago. Thy touch most sweet 
Gave blind Bartimeus back the light ; 

Lord, I, a beggar at Thy feet, 

Plead with Thee for my soul's dear sight- 



BONA VENTURE. 29 

That seeing Thy pierced Heart whence poured 
Life's last red drop on Calvary's hill, 

And seeing on Thy forehead, Lord, 
The cruel thorns that crowned to kill, 

The sight may touch diviner chord. 
That cries out braver than my will. 

And if Thou wilt, remove it. Lord, 
And if Thou wilt, press deeper still. 



BONAVENTURE. 

O Bonaventure, when I saw you first. 
Beneath your spell of silence lying there. 

My heart stood still, my lips no whisper durst. 
Lest you should vanish into empty air. 

So ghostly grey and dreamlike did you seem. 
The passing spirit of a phantom shore — 

As one who, dreaming, knew it was a dream, 
I feared to wake and lose you evermore. 

You looked a spot such as I 'd fancied oft 
To lie the other side Death's borderlands — 



30 BONA VENTURE. 

A misty, cloucUand city swung aloft 

Anear the ^' Beautiful not made with hands 



J? 



How spectral loomed thy giant oaks' dim forms 
Whose far outreaching boughs clasped hands 
across, 
Upholding 'twixt thy sleepers and the storms — 
A sheltering veil, a trembling mist of moss. 

Between whose iuterlacing storms stole thro' 
Shorn of their angry strength — ashamed to fall 

With more ungentleness than falls the dew 
Upon the bosom of thy sleepers all. 

Thro' thy defence of silence penetrates, 

No harsher sound than note of mock-bird's call ; 

For Peace hath writ her name on all thy gates, 
Her one abiding place terrestrial. 

Where tender hands upon thy bosom brown 
Had spread a little pallet, knelt I low 

To kiss the coverlet of blossom-down. 

The white narcissi, pure as mountain snow, 

That tucked within her tiny cradle there, 

The sweetest bud that blew 'neath Southland skies; 

A nimbus shone above her golden hair. 
The angels' mystic meaning in her eyes. 



CLOUD FACES. 31 

But seven summers knew thee, little one, 

For their sweet playmate, — all the rest must be, 

For all the blossoming their braes upon. 

Henceforth some lonelier, dear, for missing thee.* 

'Twixt verdant banks, the winding Vernon keeps 
Its seaward way with low-voiced murmuring ; 

While here and there from reeds and sedges peeps 
A shy-eyed water-fowl with folded wing. 

I watched the twilight grey o'erhover thee 
As soft as wing of dove o'er nestling thrown. 

And wondered would day re-discover thee 

Or would the morrow wake and find thee flown. 

But you are now as I shall see you e'er, 
A City Beautiful that Peace hath kissed, 

Asleep above thy sleepers, lying there 

In that soft land of dreams and moss and mist. 

Savannah, Ga. 



CLOUD FACES. 

Clouds along the coast 

Hang in sombre dreariness, 



* Little Gracie Watson. 



32 CLOUD FACES. 

Touching us almost 
In their eager nearness. 

Ghostly spectres leaning, 
Plucking at the land, 

Would your hidden meaning 
We could understand. 

Silent faces turning 
To our own in vain, 

With that wistful yearning 
Of the dumb in pain. 

Are ye landward driven 
From the great unknown, 

Restless souls unshriven. 
Longing to atone ? 

Oh, for this I saw you, — 
This, for this you came ! 

Peace, I cry out for you ; 
^^ Father, in His name. 

Pardon give and freedom. 
Loose their prison bands ; 

We hold Jesus hostage, 
And Thine anger's hands.'' 



COMMUNION. 33 



CHANCE. 



The blind's fear of the blind whom madness rules. 
A Moloch's mood : the providence of fools. 



COMMUNION. 

Sweet, there are other days than these, 

Sweet, there are other lands ; 
Oar clasped souls mock the dividing seas 

That mock our divided hands. 

The sun is a golden clasp by day, 
A chain are the stars by night ; 

And all the heavens the heart's highway, 
With none to dispute our right. 

The dawn and dusk are our kisses. Sweet, 

Caresses are all the hours ; 
The impatient winds are our couriers fleet, 

All are Love's and Love is ours. 



34 DOGWOOD. 



COSMOS. 



Sweet blossom -bride, so Quakerishly sober ! 
In fairy-fronded foliage doth she robe her, 
To wed her Indian lover, brown October. 



DEATH. 



A trail no traveler hath e'er retraced ; 
Whereon no friend, tho' he outhasten Haste, 
Hath friend o'ertaken, who, by one small part 
Of one poor second, had, of him, the start. 



DOGWOOD. 

Above a fallen ruin o'ergrown with moss, 
Uprose, as o'er a grave a headstone cross, 
The marble whiteness of the Dogwood bloom, 
A " Sacred to the Memory " of its tomb. 



From wall to wall of an old ruin was spun 
A silken web whence glittered in the sun 
The diamond dew-drops broidered thereupon. 



DEATH. 35 

Now, thro' the dusk, how like it seems to me . 
The tangled blooms of yon old Dogwood tree 
Meshed 'mid the aged branches scantily. 



A bevy of white butterflies awing, 
Atill to list a blue-bird's twittering, 
In ecstasy of indecision poise, 
To contemplate Spring's miracle of joys. 



DECORATION DAY. 

A rain of blossoms over the land 
For the Brave who slept beneath ; 

But what of the sea's Brave? — dearer Hand 
Had fashioned, for them, a wreath : 

A gift of rain found each lonely spot, 

And God remembered whom we forgot. 



DEATH. 



Serene thou goest as the conscious-just 

AVho deem what men may think them, little worth ; 
Knowing, the while, and smiling as thou must. 

To hear them call thee Death, whose name is Birth. 



36 EASTER MORN. 



EASTEE MORN. 

White as Archangel faces 

Gleam the altars thro' starlit glories, 
And white gleam the Parian vases 

With their lilied offertories ; 

While softly thro' tremulous laces 
The purple of porphyry steals, 

Soft as in holy places 

The hush over him who kneels. 

How pulses and trembles and falters 
Each star that has stolen to being ! 

Till the breast of the glad great altars 
Throbs like a heart for seeing 

The Hostly Face of the Risen ; 

All-eager as Mary they wait 
Close by His sepulchre-prison, 

The Tabernacle gate. 

And, hark ! As a leashed torrent sunders 
Its confines and leaps to the sea. 

So the Lent-girded Gloria thunders 
Its psean of victory ! 



EASTER MORN. 37 

Column and dome and arches 

Rock with its long-pent passion, 
Mighty the melody marches 

As thunders its Glorias crash on ! 

On pours the flood of the chorus, 

The chasm of silence over ; 
Solemn, sublime and sonorous, 

On to the gates of Jehovah ! 

'^ Gloria in excelsis ! " 

A mountain storm that flashes 
The lightnings of Rex coelestis 

As flame from the Lenten ashes ! 

Slowly, majestic, victorious, 

With the even pulse of the seas. 
Swells the Credo, strong-souled and glorious, 

The Michael of melodies ! 

Unwavering, strong and reliant 

As the seraph-sword he did fling 
O'er the primal rebellion, defiant. 

To champion the cause of the King ! 

And w^e, who are kneeling under 
The sweeping surges of sound. 



38 FLOWERS. 

Feel our souls baptized in wonder 
And doubt in its flood-tide drowned. 

The veil of the centuries, pendant 
Between that morning and this, 

Grows thin as the slow ascendant 
Mist of the incense is. 

And the face that greeted Mary 

In that tender far away, 
Smiles from the sanctuary 

In His Hostly Face to-day. 



EPITAPH FOR A HUMORIST. 

All in his life of laughter shared a part. 

Who bideth with him here ? His broken heart. 



FLOWERS. 

Precious little horde of 

Eden -truants who. 
Slipping past the sword of 

Wrath, have stolen through. 



FLOWERS. 39 

Faithful friend of mortals, 

Only one of all 
Who at Eden's portals, 

Left not at our fall. 

Tell me, little truants, 

How did you pass by 
The all-swift pursuance 

Of the angePs eye ? 

Ah, methinks he surely 

Was more wide awake ; 
But of pity purely. 

Saw not for our sake. 

Think he knew and kissed you 

With a tear-dimmed gaze, 
Eden must have missed you. 

Little runaways. 

Watchers by the lonely 

Couch of pain and death ; 
Faithful as He only 

Who ne'er tireth. 

Taper lights are taken 
From the parting bier ; 



40 FACING HOMEWARD. 

But could Death awaken, 
It would find you near. 

Patient by its pillow, 
Bead by bead in bloom ; 

Telling, 'neath the willow, 
Aves o'er the tomb. 

Like the angePs heart-praise 
To the Holy One, 

Your perfume — Laudates 
Are from sun to sun. 

Sweet-robed little prophets, 
Honey-lipped, ye sing 

Resurrection, — of its 
Glorious triumphing. 



FACING HOMEWARD. 

Loosed are my prison bars. 
Out o'er the ocean foam, 

Plunging beneath the stars, 
Erin ward — home — 



FACING HOMEWARD. 

Lift I my voice to thee, 

While tears of gladness start; 
Welling up full and free 

From a joy-breaking heart. 

Fountains long frozen dumb 
This joy to wak'ning warms ; 

Pulse o' my heart, I come, 
Open thine arms ! 

Mist is the alien shore, 

Mist to the leeward — gone ! 

Swift speeds the bark, Asthore, 
Bearing me thee ward, on. 

Ne'er was the sea so blue, 
Never the sun so bright ; 

Leading us sure and true. 
While through the night, 

White arms of ocean spray. 
Ghostly beneath the moon. 

Point us the homeward way 
Erin, aroon ! 

Erin ! Let joy not break 
This heart that bore so long, 



41 



42 FRANCIS SCOTT KEY. 

Bravely for thy dear sake, 
Sorrow and wrong. 

O, let me see thy face 
Once more, Alanna dear, 

Nor die ere thine embrace — 
Thou art so near ! 

Let but my weary feet 
Press thy green sod again, 

'T will make life's joy complete, 
Life's sorrow, vain. 



FRANCIS SCOTT KEY. 

Weak is the tongue that attempteth thy praise, 

liaureate bard of the nation ; 
Crowned by thy country with evergreen bays 

Fadeless as thine own oblation. 

Others have year by year, step by step, won 
Slowly their way to fame's portal ; 

Thou, with one bound, like a flash of the sun. 
Leapt to her temple immortal. 



FRANCIS SCOTT KEY. 43 

Caged by the foe, yet they could not control, — 

Not the whole power of Britain, 
Bind with thy body, thy patriot soul ; 

Who, as the lion, when smitten, 

Rageth the more, lashed thy spirit till wild 
Burst from thy lips thy soul's yearning. 

Long shall the flame of thy song, undefiled, 
Clear thro' the ages be burning. 

Years cannot dim it, but bright will it glow 
Thro' the world's Mays and Decembers ; 

Yea, should the beacon of freedom burn low. 
Thy song would kindle its embers. 

Song of the free heart thro' prison-bars sung 

To the dread music of battle. 
Thro' every line hath the burst of bombs rung, 

Hissed thro' each line the grape's rattle. 

How thy sad eyes must have eagerly peered 
Thro' the dense war-clouds around thee, 

For the one glance that thy soul hoped and feared. 
Chafing at fetters that bound thee. 

Then, when the morning looked dim thro' the smoke 
Down on old Chesapeake's waters, 



44 FIRST OF MAY. 

Did it not seem that an angeFs smile broke, 
Soft'ning o'er battle's red slaughters? 

In the new light did thine eyes hardly dare 
Look toward McHenry's gray towers; 

Look for the flag, then one glance — it is there ! 

Battle-torn, powder-stained, shell-rent, but — there ! 
Braving the tyrant's best powers. 

Long shall it wave and as long shall thy name 

Maryland tenderly honor. 
She hath the ' Key ' to the temple of fame, 

She hath the gift and the donor. 

Now for the Star Spangled Banner three cheers ! 

And three for the singer so glorious — 
Three and three more for the country that rears 

Proudly that banner victorious ! 



FIRST OF MAY. 

" Ave " and " Salve," they sung them 
While She smiled mid the lilies fair, 

The tallest Lily among them, 
The whitest and purest there. 



GLORIA VIRTUTIS UMBRA. 45 

" Salve/' softly and slowly 

As the eyes of the blossoms ope, 
" Salve Regina — Hail Holy, 

Oar Life, our Sweetness, our Hope." 

" Salve," the honey-sweet treble 

Seemeth as soft to me 
As the plash of a crystal pebble 

Cast in a crystal sea. 

^' Salve "— '^ O Clement, O Pia ; " 

Methinks that forever and aye 
I shall hear their sweet voices, and see her 

The beautiful Maiden of May. 



GLORIA VIRTUTIS UMBRA. 

Read at the Alumnse Memorial Service of Mrs. Lucy Webb 
Hayes. 

Some souls there are whom contemplation 

Of lofty station 
Dwarfs, blinds and warps beyond reclaim. 
Small souls that, dazzled by the light of fame, 
Burn at its shrine the higher, holier part 

Of mind and heart, 



46 GLORIA VIRTUTIS UMBRA. 

And leave but embers of high principles; 
But some there are, God^s grand invincibles, 
Who stand within its glow and stare, undazed, 
Where glory's highest altar-fires have blazed ; 
Strong in the knowledge of true greatness ; strong 
Against all wrong. 

Strong in possession of light's light ; for know 

The brightest glow 
Of glory's flame is still but Virtue's shadows cast 
O'er brows and hearts that, faithful to the last, 

Are evermore 
Set firm and high on life's tempestuous shore 
As beacon lights where wildest breakers roar. 

Of these strong souls was she whose name 
The nation couples with its holiest fame. 
Whispered where mother-lips are tenderest ; 
A household word by myriad firesides blest ; 
For she, the gentle Lucy Webb, a queen 
Uncrowned, serene. 

And standing in the country's highest place. 
Met giant Custom in his stronghold, face to face. 
And when he held the wine-glass in his hand — 
A sceptered wrong, — she dared to stand 
Before the concentrated gaze of land on land 



HEAVEN. 47 

And there deny his right to rale ; aye, there 
To stand strong wouaanhood's embodied prayer 
Against the curse. No blare of trumpets hurled 
Her victory athwart a wondering world. 
In quiet majesty, so simple, yet so glorious 
She was victorious. 



HEAVEN. 

Not the streets of gold and the pillars of jasper 
For me when the weary struggle is o'er, 

But only to see her face and clasp her 
Close to my heart as my own once more ! 

As to the desert-famished, the manna 
Will be her voice when she says to me, 

Soft ^neath the surge of the loud Hosanna, 
^' Love, I have waited so long for thee ! " 

I shall not see them — the streets of golden — 
Mine eyes have wept for her face too long, 

And the sound of her voice in some love word olden 
Will drown the rush of the Seraph's song. 



48 HOMEWARD, HO ! 

Fearless that time or that death can dissever, 
When the swift years shall at last cease to roll ; 

This will be heaven to know that forever, 
Forever and ever we are soul to soul. 



HOMEWARD, HO! 

Onward we speed like a swift-speeding arrow 

Winged from a bow ! 
Cleaving the winding land line long and narrow 

^Twixt clouds of snow. 

Straight thro' the mountain's heart swiftly we 
burrow. 

Laughing, the hills 
Hail as we distance them down the long furrow. 

How the race thrills ! 

Clouds, spent with following fast, give up their 
chasing ; 

Worsted the wind — 
Baying on heels, panting hard in the racing, 

Now — left behind ! 

Flash on ! As lightnings are hurled above us 
So be thy flight ! 



HOMEWARD, HO ! 49 



Swift to the soft clime where loved ones who love us 
Wait us to-night ! 

Give chase to distance ! Dear hearts ! — to be with 
them 

Is worth the chase ! 
Never a music to rival in rhythm 

Thy muffled bass ! 

'^Nearer and nearer ! " Ah, melody-makers, 

Match with your arts 
Music of speed over sea or land breakers 

To home-hungry hearts ! 

Match, if ye can, the glad sway of its meter. 

Sadly prosaic 
Your motif, I ween, to the pulse of its fleeter 

Rough old trochaic ! 

Homeward, my famished heart, homeward we 're 
going. 

Homeward— ahoy ! 
Long since my sad eyes have dimmed with thy 
flowing. 

Glad tears of joy. 
4 



50 IF. 

Homeward ! Their loving arras wait to caress me — 

Slack not thy speed — 
Bearing me faithful and fast ! Oh, I bless thee, 

Brave iron steed ! 



HOPE. 



The storm-set sailor, anxious-browed, 
Marks, peering thro' a lull, 

Across the black breast of a cloud. 
The white breast of a gull. 



HUMILITY. 

The majesty of Meekness understood : 
The pride of princes of the Royal Blood. 



IF. 

O if thou wert less cold, dear. 
There might be warmth for me ; 

My heart is like the mould, dear, 
That, chill, lies over thee. 



IF. 51 

If thy cheek were less white, dear, 
There might be blood in mine ; 

And my dim eyes were bright, dear. 
Were not the dark in thine. 

Some work my hands might find, dear, 

If thine less idle were ; 
Life's hardest task were kind, dear, 

Wert thou a laborer. 

My youth were not old age, dear, 
Had death not robbed thy years ; 

And left, as heritage, dear. 
More than my share of tears. 

The stars o'erhead were bright, dear. 
Were my hand clasped in thine ; 

The day would not be night, dear. 
If thou couldst see it shine. 

Nor olden songs we sang, dear, 

Together, I and thou ; 
Smite with that nameless pang, dear. 

When others sing them now. 

The bloom were not all blight, dear, 
In these old fields of ours : 



52 IN MEMORY OF SISTER VINCENT COGHLAN. 

Were not thine eyes closed quite, dear, 
And could not see the flowers. 

Tho' Summer breezes blow, dear, 

I cannot feel their kiss ; 
I miss — but, there, — I know, dear. 

It is thy face I miss. 

WOODMONT, June, 1894. 



IN MEMORY OF SISTER VINCENT 
COGHLAN. 

Under the palm and lilies, 

'Neath the lights of the holy place 

She lay with a victor's triumph 
Stamped on her pallid face. 

Under the lilies and palm — 
Meet for the brave and pure — 

Like a babe on its mother's arm. 
Sleep is sweet and waking sure. 

Her days, like the altar candles. 
Burnt out in His service sweet ; 

But, lo ! she hath loosed life's sandals 
From her patient, pilgrim feet 



IN MEMORY OF SISTER FRANCES BUNTING. 53 

And grateful the welcome she findeth 
Awaiting the day that is past, 

And tender the Hand that unbindeth 
The thorns from her brow at last. 

Ours the De Profundis ; 

Hers, a Laudate grand ; 
Ours to weep and wonder, 

Hers is to understand. 



IN MEMORY OF SISTER FRANCES 
BUNTING. 

The Matin bell rings as of old its call. 
But she hears not, nor answers as of old ; 

Beneath the shadow of the cloister wall — 
Her Vespers said, her rosary all told — 
She sleepeth sweet within the sheltered fold. 

Beyond the tempest's reach or fear's alarms. 
Close to the Cross whereon 't was sweet to die, 

Beneath the shadow of whose outstretched arms, 
With quiet faces to the quiet sky, 
The gathered lilies of His choosing lie. 



64 IN MEMORY OF FATHER RYAN. 



IN MEMORY OF FATHER RYAN. 

There 's a silent harp on our bardic walls, 
For the hand that swept it lies cold and still, 

Where the mild gulFs bosom swells and falls 
And the white magnolias sigh and thrill 

To the low sweet song of the south wind, and 

The jessamine's breath fills all the land. 

Where the Alabama windeth slow, 

Murmuring, '' Here we rest — we rest ; " 

Where the wild white passion-flowers grow 
And the mock-bird buildeth her cradle-nest 

Sleeps the singer whose lays so sad and sweet, 

Sung a victory out of a hope's defeat. 

For defeat is triumph when crowned by song, 
And victory unsung is defeat's disgrace ; 

To a crown of thorns, not of gems, belong 
A world's salvation, a ransomed race. 

And his heart, thorn-crowned in its agony. 

Hath embalmed the Southland in melody. 



LOVE. 55 



JUNE. 



Ah, transient fall as tender were the flowers 
You flung within the lap of this old clime, 

And fair as fleeting were thy sweet-faced hours, 
The children beautiful you bore old Time. 



KINSHIP. 

O not alone of blood is brotherhood, 
But of man's common love for common good ; 
Who measures greatness in his sympathies, 
Not being great, is kin of him that is. 



LOVE. 



" And now there remain faith, hope, and charity, these three 
but the greatest of these is charity." — 1 Cor., xiii, 13. 

All things shall pass ; man and his deeds 
Shall fade and wither as the grass, 

And thrones shall bend as broken reeds. 
And fame and power — all these shall pass. 



56 



LOVE. 

But, changeless ever, Love shall gaze 

From her unshaken dais ; 
Love still is Love, tho' earth may blaze. 

Was Love when earth was chaos. 

Tongues, nations, creeds, grown dizzy by 

The flash of centuries sweeping past, 
Have reeled and fallen — ruins that lie 

To bid their followers pause aghast. 
But Love abides, tho' time be o'er, 

Tho' Faith be lost in vision. 
Love still is Love forevermore, 

Tho' Hope die in fruition. 

Unwavering, constant, changeless friend, 

Of life the pure celestial leaven, 
Beginning thou and thou the end. 

For God is Love and Love is heaven. 
Their course the planets shall forget, 

The sun his race diurnal ; 
The star of Love shall never set. 

For Love is Love eternal. 



LIKE AS A FATHER. 57 



LOVE LETTERS. 

The tyrant, Space, their love defies ; 
Hands touch no more, nor eyes kiss eyes ; 
But Love laughs low for Love is wise. 

Yea, Love is wise and Love laughs low 
Beneath his very eyes to know 
Tiieir carrier-doves fly to and fro. 



LABOR. 



The Thistle 'neath whose barbed shield Peace doth 

find 
The silken down wherewith her pillow's lined. 



LIKE AS A FATHER. 

Methinks, dear Lord, the Father-heart in Thee, 
More tender than to infant weakness, yearns 
To that lone strength of manhood which discerns 

The bitterness of life illusion-free. 



58 MY HERO. 

More pitiable the dumb bravery 

Wherewith the iron in his soul he spurns, 
The while his unrevealing face he turns 

To meet the hard, cold stare of destiny. 

Not in those rare, sweet hours of unctions grace, 

Wherein 'tis almost given him to see 
With joy-moist eyes, Thy dear, transfigured Face 
Art Thou so near. As the great sun's embrace 
Is closer earth in Winter — Thine must be 
To man in his cold hours of misery. 



MY HERO. 

TO MY FATHER. 

To thee, the gentlest of humankind ; 

Hold thou my hand ; 't is more unsteady now 
Than the wee one thine covered when it lined 

Its first uncertain A, — and. Dear, dost thou 

Remember still, how very sure they were — 
The little fingers hidden under thine ? — 

My helpless little hand — thy tears did blur 
That page to thee as this, these tears of mine. 



MY HERO. 59 

I miss the loving hands, once held arm's length, 
To guide the tottering steps up to thine arms ; 

Once there, held fast in thine assuring strength. 
We laughed together at my vain alarms. 

The distance has grown longer 'twixt us now. 
Nor is thy face alight to guide as then ; 

But, O my father, I can feel somehow 

They 're stretching, as of old, toward me again. 

And this shall keep me strong ; but not so strong 
I shall not weep the while for missing thee, 

And grow to love the silence more than song, 
Because thou art of it, and wistfully 

To yearn toward it ; counting, bead by bead, 

My rosary of sweetest memories ; 
Thine every gentle Avord and look and deed. 

And all thy life's unselfish ministries. 

In days agone, a tender hand it was 

That did reach forth to bathe His sacred Face ; 
From Him, e'en then, methinks Veronica's 

Sweet pity won the pardon of her race. 

For, lo ! the gift with which He did requite 
This little sweet upon His bitter way. 



60 MY HERO. 

What precious jewel of celestial light 
Within that gentle Jewish hand He lay ! 

But O, beloved, methinks for thy brave part, 
Thy great warm love for man. He did impress 

His patient, pitying Face upon thy heart, 
And this it was made it all tenderness. 

Thou keptst thy child-heart unalloyed and sweet ; 

The memory of its gentleness to-day 
Falls, as a benediction falls, replete 

With quiet blessings on our Homeward way. 

Thy name, on grander monuments than stone. 
Is writ wherefrom it never shall depart, 

In loving fame that, jealous, guards its own ; 
The immortal tablets of the human heart. 

Thy life, to its one patient purpose true. 

Alike the smile and frown of fate withstood. 

Thine were the fortunes of the Cause whereto 
Thou didst espouse thy stainless herohood. 

Deep in the Jordan of His love immersed, 
God's inspiration signed thy life ; thou sawst 

The silent gospel of His Sacred Thirst 
Blaze into fires of a Pentecost. 



MY HERO. 61 

No stately temple door did yet unfold 

To the old gospel with new meaning fraught, 

When thou hadst heard and, like to Paul of old. 
Thou stoodst within the market-place and taught. 

Thou trodst the blight, that others might the 
bloom, 
The ways were bleak but thine were willing 
feet; 
God's own apostle wert thou unto whom 
Were prophesies of promise in defeat. 

And when at last the dawn of triumph glows — 
Her glad aurora crimsoning the sky — 

When garlanded with laurel and with rose. 
Her battle-bannered hosts go, singing, by, 

O, than the flush of victory dearer far 
Will be the rugged shadows of the past ; 

The burden-bearing, joyless days that are 
The halo 'round thy gentle mem'ry cast. 

WOODMONT, August 6, 1894. 



62 MARCH IN THE MOUNTAINS. 



MARCH IN THE MOUNTAINS. 

Hark, how in impotent rage old Euroclydon 

Scourges the bare-shouldered mountains to-night ! 

While their low laughter doth answer to mock the 
one 
Wielding the lash that the lash is so light. 

Laugh they as laughed in his slumber old Ymir, 
When the great Norse giant's ponderous mace 

Smote his bare forehead, low muttered the dreamer, 
" Breezes must blow, I feel leaves on my face.'' 

So these grim giants that, hoary and battle-proof, 
Guard this old pass, spurn Euroclydon's guage ; 

Laugh him to scorn while his anger doth but behoof 
Sport for these warriors who mock at his rage. 

Loose are his storm-steeds ; the snap of his lariat 
Maddens to fury the pulse of their speed ; 

Down the deep gorges on thunders his chariot 
Hot in pursuit of each mane-tossing steed. 

Mt. St. Joseph's, Emmitsburg. 



MOMENTS OF MUSING. 63 



MOMENTS OF MUSING. 

Perchance, in noon hours of the broad busy day 

When the city is rife 

With the noise of life 
That clatters, and rushes, and throbs alway 

Through the hard, stony streets, 

When the heart of life beats 
At the rough ribs of commerce with boisterous 
clamor. 

It may be ^iiid all 

That a quiet doth fall 
Like the first tender gleam of the twilight's soft 

glamor. 
That the finger of spirit dulls the ear of the senses. 
And the clatter of life, and its noisy pretenses 

Pass by us unheeding. 

While our still souls are feeding 
On Lotus leaves gathered from sea depths of 

dreaming. 
And, musing, we leave life's real for its seeming. 

Perchance, when the world is half sleeping, half 

waking. 
And in soft, semi-silence the gray dawn is breaking, 

When sweet, cool and dim, 

On earth's outermost rim 



64 MOMENTS OF MUSING. 

The fair morn is standing alist to earth's hymn, 
Whose first faint note trembles afar throuo^h the trees 
From one little brown bird kissed awake by tlie 
breeze ; 

It may be, indeed, in this soft, rosy flush, 
That a voice to the soul whispers tenderly 
" Hush ! '' 
And sweeter the melody far than the hymn 
The first bird awake sings to morn cool and dim. 
For the senses fall dumb when the spirit speaks low. 
And dream musics of musing and memory flow. 

Perchance, when the day waxeth wan and pale, 
And the shadows grow grayer on hillside and vale ; 
When the dew-laden air bloweth sweeter and moister, 
And down the dim aisles of the dark forest cloister 

In soft minor keys 

The birds and the breeze 
Chant their low, wordless vespers, pure, undefiled, — 
Aye, pure as the chrism -crossed lips of a child. 
When silence doth rest where noise hath wrangled. 

And when, mellowly bright. 

The last lingering light 
Of the sunbeams in towering tall tree-tops is tangled, 
Or lies in long lines over billowy meadows. 
Like gold ribbons binding great gray sheaves of 
shadows. 



OCTOBER. 65 

There be flowers, 1 ween, that the eye hath not seen, 
More fair than fair lilies in snowiest sheen, 
There be songs sweeter far than the ear ever heard. 
There be songs that have ne'er seen the face of a 

word; 
But sometimes a fragrance elusive and faint. 
Or an echo that sounds like the psalm of a saint 
Just welcomed to Heaven ; or the thrill of a 

thought 
Like the gold glory light on an angeFs wing caught, 
A vista of joy supernal reveals 
To the spirit that sees not, nor hears, only 
feels ; 
Then afar by the sunset gates of day 
As softly as silence the soul steals away. 
And the past and the future in fancy's flame fusing, 
We leave earth behind in our moments of musing. 



OCTOBER. 

Dead, the last scion of the Rose's race. 
The generation of the Summer, dead ! 
And where its watch-fires blazed behold instead 

The Invader's glorious camps usurp the place. 
5 



QQ OCTOBER NIGHT. 

Strange, daring colors with wild foreign grace, 
Tawn India's yellow and Arabia's red 
Blend into brown of Afric overhead 

And swathe their towering tents from brow to base. 

We look to sudden meet them face to face, 
These stranger-warriors who possess the land. 

We hear the Wind-hounds baying to the chase, 
And streaming from the hills on every hand 

In wild barbaric beauty do we trace 

Their multi-colored signals of command. 



OCTOBER NIGHT. 

In breathless awe of this strange midnight-noon 
The mute woods stand and stare bewildered o'er 
Heaped at their feet lie glittering Louis d'or ; 

Piled high the golden scudo and doubloon. 

The hoarded earnings of their youth of June, 
Are these surprised of bandit-meteor ? 
How pale the face yon spectral Sycamore 

Lifts, tremulously, to the midnight moon ! 



POSSESSION. 



PRAYER. 



Impatient at my heart's closed chamber door, 
The clamorous knock of noisy words I hear ; 

Bold vandals that a temple would explore, 

Whose threshold they should pass in reverent fear, 

And Silence' self take off her sandals there 
And, barefoot, tread the mystic aisle that leads 

Up to the dim hushed sanctuary where 

My prostrate soul is kneeling low to plead. 

Swayed by the passion of a prayer that brooks 
No hard, cold stare from their all-curious eyes ; 

These word-fools who, while angels veil their looks, 
Unwinking watch the flame of Sinais. 



POSSESSION. 

With princely pride his princely lands toward 
He pointed, saying, " Of these acres broad, 
Lo ! I, alone, am master sole and lord. 

The old Earth chuckled at the boaster's stress, 
" Fool, know that I alone am masterless ; 
All them that hath possessed me, I possess ! " 



68 PETER AND JUDAS. 



PETER AND JUDAS. 

The one denied, the other did betray, 

And yet how tenderly He loved them both ! 

He felt the Judas kiss — heard Peter say, 

" I know Him not ! ^' and seal it with an oath. 

Yet, mark with what an eager jealousy 

His pardon ran to meet him — ah, He knew 

That Peter loved Him — why, for you, — for me 
This were a triumph, — not for Jesus who 

Took flesh that He might give us love for hate. 

Nay, Christ grew jealous here to prove love's 
might. 
And malice match with mercy thrice as great, 

'Twas thus that Jesus Judas did requite. 

Swift thro' the blackness of the death we saw 
Flashed, in a light of life we did not see, 

The swords of Heaven and Hell upon the draw. 
Who doubts which won beneath the gallows tree ! 



RETRIBUTION. 69 



POVERTY. 



Fulfilment of each wish — to be denied 
The luxury of one unsatisfied. 



RETRIBUTION. 

With a joyful heart and an idle pen 

I wantonly mimicked grief, 
And the mimicry won me the tears of men, 

But I felt that my heart was a thief. 

And I smiled at deceit's success in scorn 

Of the triumph so easily got, 
To think, in the mask that my joy had worn. 

They saw her and knew her not. 

But heaven smiled not on the theft for, lo ! 

With my own heart's blood write I, 
And the pen is now true — tho' it trembled so- 

To a grief that is not a lie. 

But thus am I punished, who dared to feign 

The guise of this holy thing. 
That my soul, crying out in immortal pain, 

Lists, vainly, an answering. 



70 REQITIESCAT. 

O, it would requite thee but just, my heart, 

If hunger for sympathy's bread, 
Should drive thee to feign, with the olden art, 

The semblance of gladness instead. 

And Justice, exacting an eye for an eye, 

Demand thee thus wise to atone, 
That, mocking their grief with the face of a lie. 

With a lie thou shouldst mock thine own. 



REMORSE. 

The flaming sword across the gates that close 
On quiet joys of labor and repose. 



REQUIESCAT. 

The Autumn leaves come twittering, twittering 
down, 

Not birdling wings that flutter in first flight 
From tiny cradle-nests so snug and brown. 

Come winnowing the air so lightly light. 



SEPTEMBER ROSES. 71 

But, ah, as heavy on ray heart they fall 

As sound of clods upon a coffin-lid, 
Each leaf the " Dust to dust'^ upon the pall, 

Whereneath the Summer's dear, dead face lies hid. 



RECOMPENSE. 

For him who breaks not Life's long Lent of fast, 
Is spread the full, rich Easter-board at last. 



SINCE. 



Since sudden silence fell upon his voice, 
I hear the silence call above all sound, 

Insistent and incessant, — all the noise 

Of Heaven's reiterate thunders therein drowned. 



SEPTEMBER ROSES. 

Low are the fires of Summer ; the flame of the Roses 
Banked for the long night of Winter with ashes 
of leaves. 



72 SUNSET AT BONNIE BRAE. 

Here and there, leaping from cover, a blaze-bloom 
opposes 
The old and the sure subjugation that Autumn 
, achieves. 



SEPTEMBER. 

The Autumn curfew rings : put out your light 
Ye Summer-subjects all ; to sleep, ye Flowers: 

And quench your fires for the Winter night, 
Ye Crimson Roses, that would keep late hours. 



SUNSET AT BONNIE BRAE. 

How tender is the hush o'erhovering 

This sanctuaried home our dead have found ! 

Encanopied 'neath Evening's angel-wing, 
The timid twilight children steal around. 

And sleeping silences awake to sing 

Strange lullabies whose music is not sound. 

For all hath Eve a benediction sweet, 
A mother's tenderness is in her calms. 

Earth's children all, she gathers at her feet. 
But these — ah, these she foldeth in her arms. 



SUNSET AT BONNIE BRAE. 73 

For as a mother closer holds alway 

The child that, sleeping, to her bosom clings, 

And hushes up the children's noisy play, 
And softens the low slumber song she sings, 

So Nature, here, with tender caution, lays 
Her finger on her lip, — and all is still : 

On tip-toe softly steal the nights and days 
And, silence-shod, the sunsets from the hill. 

How far away seem strife, and toil, and hate, — 
How far the seething city's ceaseless din — 

From these who left at yonder little gate 
Life's staff and sandals worn and entered in. 

On either side that little gate there stand, 

As even at the sacred temple door. 
Twin fonts wherein, who pass, with ghostly hand. 

Sign with the cross of silence evermore. 

That never with them in the holy place 

May enter torturing thoughts of life or fear — 

Death's absolution 't is, that doth enchase 
With sacred circlet, all who enter here. 

O sleeper dear, I may not see your face. 

For all the curtains of your couch are drawn. 

Soft, — soft, — break not the quiet of the place. 
My breaking heart, for he must sleep till morn. 



74 



Un marred thy slumber, dear, by moan or stir, 
Life's fever is allayed, and we who keep 

The night-watch by thee know, dear slumberer, 
Thou wilt be better in the morning; — sleep. 

Close by thy feet the voiceless streamlet slips 
Upon its rippling way with silenced song, 

And, whispering low, the soft breeze lays its lips 
Amid the parted grasses cool and long. 

Sometimes, beloved, I wonder, jealouswise. 
If theselike voices have, perchance, some way 

Of reaching you, while my heart vainly cries 
And vainly 'mid the grass my lips I lay. 

The olden name whereat, it was, of yore. 
Your wont to turn with tender face alight, 

Can reach you not — tho' whispered o'er and o'er. 
And this makes strangely lone the long, dark night. 



"SHE HATH SEEN TO-MORROW." 

In memory of Mother Mary Caroline Friess, Superior-General 
of the Order of Sisters de Notre Dame. 

No more the lengthening shadows shroud the day, 
The glory of the sun that never sets 



75 



Is 'round about her — night has passed away, 
And all the sorrowing that night begets. 

No more for her shall Autumn lay a waste 
The blossom-bowers builded by the Spring ; 

All seasons, by her goodness garland-graced. 
Melt into one eternal blossoming. 

No more beneath the Tabernacle veil 

Hides now the face of Him she loved alone; 

But glows with a refulgence, turning pale 
The Benediction lights about the throne. 

No more outside the gate, with lamp trimmed well. 
She waits fulfilment of her 'trothal vows ; 

But crowned with amaranth and asphodel 
Hath entered in the palace of her Spouse. 

Her dower — Golconda's self nor either Ind 
Could match the meanest jewel in her hand ! 

And her reward — no furthest, wandering wind 
Hath whispered it — no heart can understand. 

From lips, that patient told their Aves o'er. 

There burst the psalms of triumph and of praise, 

And she, who life's libation did outpour, 
Is quaffing the new vintage of its days. 

NoTKE Dame, September 5, 1892. 



76 TO JOSIE — MY FOUR- YEAR-OLD PLAYMATE. 



TO JOSIE— MY FOUR-YEAR-OLD 
PLAYMATE. 

The flowers have come again, O little one, 

The "Dragon-mouths'^ are all abloom to-day, 

But you come not to meet me, little one. 
For our old Summer hour of play. 

I left you ere the garden 'gan to fade ; 

Ah ! me, I see your laughing, little face. 
Smile out at me, my Josie, through the shade, 

That lies 'tween me and your bright dwelling 
place. 

You left me, little one, with just a happy smile 
For brief good-bye, a smile and baby song — 

" Fse doin' now, I '11 turn in after while " — 
I little thought you would be gone so long. 

The " Dragon-mouths " are fading on the stem ; 

I have not pulled a single one this year. 
And in our playground, when I pass by them, 

I turn aside to hide a falling tear. 

For then I see you, little one, once more. 
Your cherry lips disclosing tiny pearls ; 



THE PASSING OF MARCH. 77 

Shaking your golden head the while a score 

Of '^ Dragon-mouths " fell off your shining curls. 

And how you laughed to see them shower down, 
And turned with sweet commandment, " Pinch 
'em on ! " 

And I would weave again your crimson crown, 
While you sat mouse-still, darling, till 't was done. 

Then, " Fix my finners," and with baby-lips 

Pinched tight to keep the dragons on, you spread 

Your dimpled hands to me till finger-tips 

Were each nipped by a crimson " Dragon's-head." 

I miss you, little one, I miss you so ; 

But, ah ! I know that you are playing now 
In gardens where the fadeless flowers blow. 

And angel hands wreath blossoms for your brow. 



THE PASSING OF MARCH. 

O stern, but kindly-faced, we call thee rough — 
We know thee not, sweet nurse of flowers, for, lo ! 

That voice is tender which is sweet enough 
To sing awake the violets 'neath the snow. 



78 TO NOLENE. 

Thou leavest the flower-fledgelings of the Spring, 
For on thy loving listening, from the nest 

Break birdling- blossoms low, sweet chirruping 
And fluttering of wings beneath thy breast. 

With eager, thirsty little lips aparch 

For April rains, they flee thy sheltering ; 

Dost joy or grieve, O mother-bird of March, 
To see thy nestling- violets all awing ? 



TO NOLEJSTE. 

Dead ? — nay, is the flower dead that sleeps 

'Neath Winter's snows and waits the kiss of 
Spring ? 

Does sunlight die ? When Phoebus' chariot sweeps 
Through western gates it bears an eastern king. 

And starlight — when night's glittering host is 
merged 
In morn's more glorious flood — is starlight dead ? 
Ah, no ! tho' hidden where the sun's bright tide hath 
surged, 
And we see not, the stars are still o'erhead. 



TO NOLEKE. 79 

Fair Spring, the resurrection morn of flowers, 
Doth whisper ^'Wake!" to all the buds and 
trees ; 
But fairer waking hath this loved of ours, 

Where God's own breath is heaven's ambrosial 
breeze. 

And when we gazed upon her cold, pale brow 
And said, "She sleeps !" 't was but the calm, deep 
peace 

That fell upon her when God whispered, " Now, 
Awake my daughter, wake ! earth's night doth 



When we behold the sinking sun and say " 'T is 
night," 
Another clime hails morn with glories rife; 
And so when her dear eyes did lose their light, 
We cried, " 'T is death ! " but she — she knew 
't was life. 

But thro' the Winter's dearth we miss the flowers ; 

'T is night to us when Phoebus is not seen ; 
And tho' the Spring and day are thine, yet ours 

The Winter and the night. Farewell, Nolene ! 



80 PASSION-FLO WEES. 



TO SOME PRESSED PASSION-FLOWERS 
FROM THE OLD PLANTATION. 

It all comes back — and I stand once more 

'Neath my Southern skies on the dear old place, 

Watching the evening sunlight pour 
Its golden rain on my lifted face, 

And glorifying in radiant showers 

The purple field of the passion-flowers. 

The hush of dusk as the night stole down, 
The sweet, cool breeze and the leaves astir ; 

Soft voices the stillness could not drown, 
The whisper of wind and the cricket's whir, 

The shadows that loomed thro' the gathering chill. 

And the pulse of the silence throbbing still. 

The moonlit porch 'neath the quiet sky, 
My mother's voice to the old guitar's, 

A " Now I lay me " and sleepy " Bye " 

To the glad, gold fields 'neath the pulsing stars. 

The good-night kisses — ah ! life, it seems 

You have naught so sweet as our cradle dreams ! 



THE GLORIA. 81 



THE GLORIA. 

Across Judea^s crested hills, 

O'er valley, mount and sea, 
Still, thro' the midnight, throbs and thrills 
The Gloria's ecstasy. 

Celestial singers, fluttering in 

The radiance of the star. 
Unceasing thro' the years hath been 

Your first glad Gloria. 

Borne onward by Faith's mountain breeze. 

This herald of the Lord 
Hath swept the harp of centuries 

Without one broken chord. 

And, rapt, we follow in a daze. 

As shepherds did of old. 
When all the midnight burst to blaze 

Above their sleeping fold. 

We follow thro' our night of care 

The diamond-fingered star, 
On, on, until it leads us where 

Jesus and Mary are. 
6 



82 THE GLORIA. 

O blessed star, with stranger-face, 
Bewildering sage and seers. 

Whence art thoii — alien in space, 
Whose light doth blind the spheres ? 

With halos strange, thy wondrous tints 
Make this poor crib of Ills 

More glorious than a cradled prince 
Of Caesar's palaces. 

And Mary's face — those wondrous eyes 

That melt as Jesus stirs ! 
The heart can see — the painter tries — 

That mother-face of hers. 

All radiant with divinest love — 

Transfigured as she lists 
The *' Gloria in excelsis '' of 

Celestial rhapsodists. 

" Gloria in excelsis ! '' 

Hark ! thro' the gates ajar, 

"In excelsis Deo !" 
Is answering from afar. 

" Gloria in excelsis ! " 

Earth lifts her face again. 



TO M. F. 83 

" In excelsis Deo ! " 
Her rapturous Amen. 

" Gloria in excelsis ! '^ 

Down thro' the gates impearled, 
" In excelsis Deo ! " 

Shouts a reclaimed world. 

" Gloria in excelsis ! " 

Triumphant from the Throne, 
" In excelsis Deo ! " 

The age\s antiphone. 



TO M. F. 

How is it with thee, O beloved in peace. 
Dost think of us as we do think of thee? . 

And lonelier grow as the long days increase? 
Or hast thou there a blest immunity 

From such heart-hunger? Hath it made thee 
strong — 
This face to face with the eternal years ? 



84 TO M. F. 

Whereto Time is no more creation's song 

Than one star's voice the chorus of the spheres. 

And canst thou see this little star among 

The golden blossoming ? Canst find its face 

'Mid glittering galaxies of worlds outflung 

Like flowers of flame to strew His footpath, space ? 

Doth the drear length between us but appear 
As one of its to-morrows did to thee ? 

"To-morrow," we would say, "he will be here" — 
" To-morrow," dost thou say, " they come to me ? " 

O, it were joy to know thee thusly strong — 

To-morrow is so very near to-day — 
But pity us remembering how long 

But one was wont to be with thee away. 

And now between our faces, dear, their lies 

Three Autumns' drift, and on our hearts the snow 

That melteth not beneath the August skies, 
Albeit Summer suns may come and go. 

WOODMONT, June, 1895. 



THE MAY AFTER. 85 



THE MAY AFTER. 

They say that it is May, and, dear, I see 

Abloom the lilac and the Judas-tree ; 

And in the waking woodlands, fluttering, 

Like bevy of white butterflies awing. 

Glints here and there the dogwood's blossoming. 

But O, for all to me — 't is May to me 

No more than this worn picture, dear, is thee ; 

Thee, whose warm cheek pressed close against mine 

own — 
May's image this — her soul with thine is flown. 

And May — why I remember. May was young — 
And now I stand these wildwood flowers among ; 
But they are older than the forest trees — 
As old as earth is — I can see in these 
All of creation's withered centuries ! 
Aye, they are parched and dry as desert sand — 
Grave-grass alone is young in this lone land — 
Ah, no, they thoughtless speak, beloved, who 

say. 
Forgetting thou art gone, that this is May. 

WOODMONT, May, 1893. 



INTERNATIONAL PARLIAMENT OF PEACE. 



TO INTERNATIONAL PARLIAMENT 
OF PEACE. 

" Make straight the way ! " the Baptist's voice at last 
Breaks on our ears as breaks on farthest shore 

The last wave-ripple of a pebble cast 
Into the deep ; as, widening evermore, 

Its circles wed the shore — so, on and on 

From out the wilderness, the voice of John, 
" Make straight the way ! " 

Level the hills — they hide the blessed light — 

O, nations of the earth, make straight the way ! 
Invert your cruel creed of " Might makes right." 
It mocks " Thy kingdom come," the prayer we 
pray; 
And heed, at last, the unrevoked that still 
From Sinai thunders forth, " Thou shalt not kilL^ 
" Make straight the way ! " 

In cleansing furnace fires purge your steel 
Of brother's blood ; let it come forth again 

Recast to gentler form for human weal, 
Its offering that of Abel, not of Cain. 

So shall each blade, in this, its newer birth. 

Make reparation to the injured earth. 

" Make straight the way ! " 



INTERNATIONAL PARLIAMENT OF PEACE. 87 

For in each furrow that the plow shall break, 
Dwells absolution for its blight and blast; 

And golden grain shall blossom in its wake, 
A token of forgiveness for the past. 

Make straight the way — the valleys shall be filled, 

And in the cannon's mouth the doves shall build. 
'^ Make straight the way ! '^ 

O, Brotherhood, that bindeth coast to coast, 

In common crusade let your war-cry be 
'^Thy kingdom come" — the white-doved Holy 
Ghost 
Your flag of universal unity. 
The heel of Peace shall crush the head of Mars, 
And earth stand forth redeemed from cursed wars. 
'^ Make straight the way ! " 

Behold all Heaven leans earthward to applaud 
And cheer its brave-souled champions who rear 

This milestone on the march millennium-ward. 
Make straight the way, for we are very near 

Unto the blessed promise spake of old, 

" And there shall be one Shepherd and one fold." 
" Make straight the way ! " 

O thou that heraldeth dread war's surcease, 
Annunciation Angel of His love, 



88 TWO TWILIGHTS. 

Trumpet o'er earth this mighty Gospel Peace, 

Unto the utmost boundaries thereof. 
Wake us unto the light of Christlier day, 
To nobler weapons than we cast away. 
^' Make straight the way ! " 



TWO TWILIGHTS. 

There in the Summer twilight on the porch 

She sits asleep, dear heart, in her quaint easy chair. 

Flickers yet faint the sun's slow-dying torch. 
And dark distils delicious coolness everywhere. 

A gentle picture is her soft repose, 

A life's twilight within a day's — the sun of each. 
Now peacefully descending to a close. 

To rise again beyond the darkling shadow's reach. 

White as a nimbus circling sacredness, 

The soft hair gleaming 'neath her snowy cap. 

Her thin hand laid in loving, mute caress 
Upon the worn old Bible in her lap. 

If from God's angel in all-glorious guise, 

Death's "Come" should fall this moment on her 
ears. 



TO A BELATED DAISY. 



89 



Her simple faith were shamed by a surprise 

No greater than is that wherewith she hears, 
" Grandma, wake up ''—and, waking, smiles to see 
Her little grandchild standing at her knee. 



TO A BELATED DAISY. 

Where did you come from, sweet little one, 

Cuddling close to the cloister fence? 
With a wee face white as a wistful nun. 

Why thy brown-eyed sisters have all gone hence ! 

Have you forgotten the path to take ? 

I thought, at first, when I saw you there, 
I had found the Winter's first snow-flake. 

So tender and tiny you were, and fair. 

Your face is so wistful, so cold, and white. 

Are you frightened, wee one, that you 're lost ? 

Or have you seen thro' the darksome night 
Peer at you the glittering eyes of frost ? 



" The Winter eats up little daisies," you say ? 

Well, I know by the time that December 's come 



90 THE CONFEDERATE FLAGS. 

Each wee, snowy tow-head is tucked away 
In a downy bed in Daisydom. 

And long, long ere this have they fallen asleep. 
To the Autumn winds' lullaby soft and slow, 

And not until Spring in their curtains shall peep 
And kiss each white cheek will they wake, I know. 

But come, I will hide thee safe, dear little one, 
From the frost and the snow and the wintry 
weather. 

And we '11 wait till the daisies return anon, 
And then you can all go home together. 



THE CONFEDERATE FLAGS. 

In an issue of the Baltimore Sun an ex-Confederate says : 
" The discussion in regard to the return of the Confederate flags 
has fully established the fact that the North will not give them 
up. The ex-Confederate soldiers did not ask for them, nor do 
I think they want the flags. Let them remain in the hands of 
the Government as an evidence of what the Union army ac- 
complished ; bring them forth from the hiding places to which 
they have been consigned, place them where they can be seen, 
and in order that their history may be fully known to future 
generations, have an inscription pl.iced on them to show that 
they were captured by an army of over 2,800,000 Federal soldiers 



THE CONFEDERATE FLAGS. 91 

from 700,000 Confederates after desperate fighting, continuing 
through a period of four years." L- H. 

Aye, flaunt your captured battle-flags, 

The trophies of your might ; 
Yea, plant them on your Northern crags 

And loftiest mountain height. 
Shout with a voice that shall never weary 

The triumph of right, the defeat of wrong, 
Lift it aloft till the eagle's eyrie 

Echoes the cry of your victor-song. 
Boast as you will. 
But remember still 

Your trophies are spoils of the strong. 

O men of the North, ye were brave, I ken ; 

But ye were three million, remember. 
While seven hundred thousand half-starved men 
Gave battle through wilderness, mountain and glen, 

Till despair quenched hope's last ember. 
Was it at best an equal test. 

Of might to might, of strength to strength ? 
Ye were four to one for each dauntless breast, 
That was bared to your shell through the cruel 
length 

Of four long years. 
Whose blood and tears 
Flowed freely to feed your Federal cheers. 



92 THE CONFEDERATE FLAGS. 

Keep the winding sheets of the dear, dead cause ; 

They were banners when heroes bore them, 
But they 're torn with shell and the shock of wars, 

And the spice of powder is o'er them. 
You may keep them, aye, for the hands that defended 

Were nerveless ere you gained them ; 
Each marketh a thousand brave lives ended. 
And the blood of our best hath stained them. 
Do you think 'round those flags 
Our memory lags ? 
No ! it marches with Lee to Fame's high mountain 

crags, 
Where our soldiers are resting ! then keep the poor 
rags. 

The struggle is o'er ; let the ashes of hate 

Lie cold on the nation's hearth at last. 
As cold as the pulse of her sons who wait 

No more the call of the bugle blast. 
Their hands on their hearts, not their swords, are 
laid, 
And the Blue and the Grey thus meet 
In a Peace that is never to be unmade, 
Nor victory, nor defeat, 
Nor hostile gun 
Shall break upon 
The sweet, eternal Truce begun. 



TO A HYACINTH BULB. 93 



TO A LADY, PLAYING. 

The sheen of the corn's gold tassel 

Is in your hair, 
And fair the fingers, and facile 

As they are fair. 
That summon, as queen her vassal. 

That sweet old air. 

But O, my lady, of thronely 

Grace of art. 
Know you and its minors lonely 

Too lightly part ; 
You touch with your fingers only 

The price of a heart. 



TO A HYACINTH BULB. 

Within thee, brown, unlovely little thing, 

With white wings folded close, sleeps soft a soul ; 

A conscious star-eyed little spiritling 
That is to lightly leap the sod's control, 

And spread its petal-pinions, pure and free, 

Sun-ward at last in trembling ecstasy. 



94 TO THE HAVANA CATHEDRAL. 

And when they press the clods above my breast 
Gently as I, the earth upon thee now, 

Quiet as is thine own shall be my rest 
And I, as resurrection-sure as thou : 

Knowing than when I wake it is to be 

The sunlight of my immortality. 



THE WAKE OF THE STORM. 

Blue are the fields the lightnings ploughed 
And, lo ! from the furrow-scars, 

The seed that was sown by the sower-cloud 
Springs up in a million stars. 



TO THE HAVANA CATHEDRAL. 

A million tiny temples fell ^ 

To crystallize 
In thee thou grey and massive shell 

Where hidden, lies 
Within thy Tabernacle-chamber pent. 
The precious Host-pearl of the Sacrament. 

^ The Cathedral is built of coquina, a composition of crushed 
sea-shells. 



TWO SONGS. 95 



THE FALLOW YEAR. 

The fields that labored thro^ the harvest heat, 
And spun their golden web of ripened grain, 

Their Sabbath-day keep holy ; sing their sweet 
Old-fashioned hymns of prayer and praise again, 

The berry-blooms and golden-rod, — these be 

Their Coronation and Doxology. 



TWO SONGS. 

The poet sang for the hopeless, 

But his one star shone clear ; 
And the buoyant song rose sweet and strong 

As a lark's a sunlit height along. 
But the hard, dry eyes of his listening throng 

Shed not one saving tear. 

Again he sang for the hopeless 

When his last star had set ; 
With labored beat, nor strong, nor sweet, 

But his heart it was, — not his heart's deceit, 
That sang from despair, despair's defeat, 

The people's eyes were wet. 



96 TO A HEDGE OF COSMOS. 



TONE. 

One speech remained, of Babel uno'erthrown- 
The universal mother-tongue of Tone. 



TO A HEDGE OF COSMOS. 

The Wild-Rose of the Autumn brave doth build 
A barricade of bloom against the frost. 
'Twas here, ere Summer's cause was wholly lost. 

Their hearts' best blood her Red-Rose Legion spilled ; 

Her loyal Lilies' '^ Vivas " here were stilled. 

Thrice hath the Moon the track of battle crossed 
Searching the wounded of the holocaust. 

With cheek gone terror-white and heart death- 
chilled. 

Have ye not heard whereof the land is filled ? 

The Summer made surrender moons ago ! 
Why this vain waste ? Fate is not overwilled — 

Forgive, I wronged you ! — Yes, I know you know. 
'^^T is for the Summer's sake'' — less might have 
thrilled 

The idle stars to chivalry thy woe. 



THE SANCTUS OF THE HILLS. 97 



TWO HATES. 

The simpler lifted sword and smote ; 
The subtler took a pen and wrote. 



THE SANCTUS OF THE HILLS. 

What makes, dear Lord, the vision so all-glorious 

to me— 
So sacred-sweet ? The beauty of the hills 
Thrills me with anguished-ecstasy as some vast 

melody, 
A thousand-throated threnody, or thrilliant victory 
That marches with the tread of all captivity set free. 

The sunlight glints upon them, like an undulating 

sea. 
Reflecting one vast rainbow from on high ; 
They break, as David brake of old, in poet-psalmody. 
In canticles of color chorus. Lord, Thy Majesty, 
And I, I look and love for all the blind who cannot 

see. 



98 THE POET. 



THE SHEPHERD. 

The fleets that the morning had scattered, 
And out to the ocean afar bore ; 

The shepherd of Evening has gathered 
Into the fold of the harbor. 

The waywardest sail from the shelter, 
Hath found her afar and hath brought 
her, 

A snow-white lamb on his bosom, 
Over the desert of water. 



THE POET. 

How close he comes upon elusive things. 

How near of touch to evanescent fancies ! 
Th' uncaptured wildling, quick at taking wings. 
Feeds from his hand with half-tame, trustful 

glances. 
Knowing him as the wild things knew Saint 
Francis. 



TO . 99 



THE STORM. 

A naked blade leaps from a scabbard-cloud, 
A bared fang's menace in its deadly glare ; 

The Thunder's brazen tocsin bruits aloud, 
Arousing the swift legions of the air, 

And challenge fences challenge ; yon dark arch 
Grows darker with the massing forces. Ho, — 

Give place, give place, the Wind is on the march ! 
Each archer of the Lightning bends his bow ; 

A charge of flaming arrows strews his track, 
A volley of rain-shrapnell stings his face; 

The Warrior of the Wind, he turns not back. 
He loves it as the hunter loves the chase. 

An ambushed caisson, bursting in his path. 
Wakes him to laughter and the Storm to wrath. 
Hark ! that platoon must rend his ranks asunder ! 
The fight is on ! let mortals stand from under. 



TO . 

Who hath desired the good, tho' be 't, his days 
Pass all uncrowned of his most dear desire ; 



100 UNCANONIZED. 

Who bides his time in watch and prayer and 
praise, 
Letting nor hope decline, nor faith expire,— 

To him it shall be given at the last, 

In some all-tender way that God shall please. 
To see his dream, — to hold the vision fast, 

And, Simeon-like, he shall depart in peace. 



UNCANONIZED. 

Great-souled A'Kempis, dying poor, left rich 
All time and peoples; for the bread, bequest, 

Not e'en the stone of a Cathedral niche 
Is thy return ; yet, art thou better blest. 

Upon the altar of our heart thou 'rt writ 

'^ Saint Thomas " — all God's angels know thee 
thus; 

Before thy face love's candles all are lit, — 
Pray for us. Saint and Brother, pray for us. 



WHY? 101 



VADE MECUM. 



However creeds may twinkle on Life's dark — 
A million marshlight-mimics of the day — 

Who follows Love's divinely-lighted spark, 
Findeth at last Who said, " I am the way." 



WHY? 



I wonder why hearts were made 
Of such brittle, unstable stuff, 

To shrink like a coward afraid 
Of a word not tender enough ; 

To wince and shrink at a glance 
That is just a thought too cold ; 

To throb with pain if perchance 
A hungered-for word is untold ; 

To hang for life on a smile. 
To feel that a frown is death ; 

To tremble with hope for awhile. 
To break at one's unfaith ? 



102 WALT WHITMAN. 

Ah ! hearts should be stern and strong, 
Should be made of stouter stuff, 

For sighs are more frequent than song, 
And our path is stony and rough. 

Aye ! hearts should be brave to bear 
Unfaith that they surely must meet. 

Or armor be given them to wear 
As we sandal our weary feet. 

Ah ! why were hearts made, I wonder. 
To suffer what e'er may befall, 

That a look may rend them asunder — 
God, why were hearts made at all ? 



WALT WHITMAN. 

He blazed a new path truth ward ; not for him 
The old and footworn garden walks of art. 

Outlining forms conventional and trim — 
The circle, crescent, diamond and the heart. 
Iambus, trochee, dactyl — far apart 

From forms' monotony and precedent. 

The tangled, wayward, wild-flower way he went. 



WHICH. 103 

Thro' meadow grasses sweet and cool and long 
Where many a daisy's face is lifted up, 

Where thrums the wild bees' bachanalian song 
Over the nectar-brimming clover cup ; 

By paths known only to the dew and wind 

Who felt in him, a comrade of their kind. 

Thro' sylvan coverts wherein, softlywise. 

As some young mother-bird the silence croons, 

Thro' virgin valley where the sad stream sighs 
O'er crystal pebble-keys its rippled runes. 

From Custom's court he carried, self-exiled. 

The freedom and the freshness of a child. 



WHICH. 

That which thou tookst from out my life when thou 
Didst go, dear heart, the silent, sunset way. 

Hath left it so much less than life somehow, 
I wonder thou couldst go and let me stay. 

So strange all old familiar things have grown. 
So strange this life where thou dost not abide ; 

I wonder sometimes, dear, I am so lone, 
I wonder if it was not I who died. 



104 WHICH. 

Was 't thou that bent above my cold, white face ? 

Was't I who at thy kiss nor smiled nor spoke? 
Which one turned back, dear, to life's lonely place? — 

Of our twain hearts was 't mine or thine that 
broke ? 



